Reasons for Living
by HipstahCat
Summary: AU medic!Stiles soldier!Derek


Reasons for Living

1. Stiles

I pressed my lips against your skin as I closed my eyes, my fingers softly navigating the curves of your body, the long healed wounds and the hardened calluses that mark you, the soft, supple skin that's untouched by all the violence. Like a guide along the stars, I've memorized you. I don't need a light to find the bullet wound on your right bicep, or a map to follow the scars on your being for I've seen them when they were still wounds that threatened to take you from this world to the next. I touch them now, my fingers trembling, as reminders of the fragility of life.

And your strength of will to live.

Everyday you're out there, fighting this war. And every day I'm left here, praying for your return. You're a soldier - a sniper. Though you don't fight on the front lines, your scars are proof that war spares no one. Yet, somehow, you've continued on despite the horrors you've seen, felt, inflicted. You tell me of your skirmishes, your battles. You tell me of your victories. You tell me of your rescues. But you never tell me of the defeats. Of those you've killed. Of those who were lost.

I don't need to hear it.

I am a medic. Though I'm not out there with you, I am not blind. I see it. I see it all. They bring me the results of those lost battles on stretchers or gurneys - soldiers who are broken and torn, soldiers who need our abilities to bring them back from the brink of death. They cry out in their sleep of ghastly images; of bullets going through flesh, of deafening explosions, of mangled bodies strewn across the ground of the battlefield that they miraculously managed to leave with their lives. They are broken not only body, but in mind and spirit, and I, even with my capabilities, can't hope to fix them. Every day I pray that you will not be one of them, not another casualty in this campaign for supremacy. Not another faceless soldier lost.

Not again.

I wrap my arms around your chest, pressing myself against your back. Your body is warm, your skin is moist. Your hair is wet against my cheek, the beads of water from your shower glistening in the little light of my bedroom. The sheets are damp and tangled beneath us. I embrace you tightly as I burry myself into the crook of your neck, the water dripping from your hair slipping between the non-existent space between us. You already know what's on my mind.

You turn, and my grasp on you breaks for a painful moment. Only for just a moment. Your hardened hands are rough against my waist, and soon the space between us is closed again. Your hands slide along my sides to my back, and you trace your fingertips along my spine. Water drips down my nakedness, and you catch them as they fall, drawing wings of water behind my shoulders with your fingers. A soft moan escapes my lips, and it is lost in the darkness.

Just as I have memorized you, you have memorized me.

You hold me tenderly. Your heartbeat is steady against my breast. You're alive. I can feel it. But I can also feel the trenches on your skin against my chest, malice engraved into you by your enemies. They say that the deeper sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. No. They pain me. They are reminders of the suffering you have endured, of the horror of war you have seen and survived, yet you carry them not with pride, but with silent dignity.

You told me they were your reasons for living.

Your beliefs, your ideals, your dreams, your reasons for leaving. Each were represented by the marks of those who wished to deny you these. Those who wished to take you away from me. I begin to cry silently, and instantly you know that the newly fallen drops on your skin are not water, but are salty tears.. I cling to you, frantic. Your reasons for living... will you die for them? I don't want to lose you.

You are gentle with my selfishness, and you whisper into my ear sweet solace.

Your words trail off as you wipe the streaks on my cheeks with your lips until they brush against mine. We kiss, and I am reassured by your breath, your heat, your wetness that we are here. The passion we share convinces me; we are alive, we are alive.

I rise to my knees, my body still pressed tightly against yours. You look straight up at me, quite, your windows to the soul hiding so many things, protecting me from the nightmares I already have. I wonder if you can see right through me, through my insecurities, my selfishness. I wonder if you can see everything in this darkness, my reason for living.

You.

Why else would I stay on this wretched country? I want to protect you. I want to save you from these scars that you hold on to, from the tears you cry to yourself when you think I am asleep. I want to heal you, heal you of all the hurt you've endured, of the wounds on your spirit and soul. But, in the end, you are the one who stands strong for the both of us.

I hold your face in my hands and smile, bittersweet.

In the end, all I can do is love you.

Despite all the pain, all the loss, all the tragedies that haunt us - somehow, we live. Somehow, we love.

2. Derek

I'm sorry I lied to you.

I look straight into my communicator as I crouch in the shadows of the ruins that stand aged and weathered in the middle of the city. My chest feels tight, and blood continues to pool and overflow from the rim of my left boot. The pain is gnawing; blaring in my mind as I fight to keep calm, focused. Beneath my scarred armor, I know my ankle is a mangled mess. I can barely walk, and I had lost my first aid kit in the fray. I grimace.

I was reckless.

The events that had led to this replayed in my mind. Our raid turned into a massacre as we were ambushed by the enemy, and I, careless, fell victim to the trap of my misplaced confidence.

We ran headlong into their territory, brash and cocky, passing through the ruins.

One of my troops stops. I don't see the mines at his feet, or the barrage of bullets that pepper his body. Everything happens so fast. The shrieks and war cries descend on us, sending us to our feet. Someone tries to save our fallen comrade but it's too late; he's already down on his knees, trying not to trigger the mine. He forces himself to fall forward, hoping that his weight might keep the mine from triggering. To no avail. The sand explodes as chaos erupts all around us.

We fight as well as we can, but the barrage of enemy fire slowly forces us back.

"Fall back! Regroup!"

I scramble back, trying to secure the rear for us. The rest of my party follows while gunfire and explosions shear through the ground before and all around me. I dive and hug one of the many pillars that dot the area, massive ruins of some ancient civilization, taking cover and returning fire so my allies can pull together behind me.

One, two, three make their way past me, two are still pulling back.

Live. Live. Live. It reminds me so much of -

An explosion rocks the ground. I'm face down on the sand. I shake myself dazedly as the world spins around me. The ringing in my ears doesn't help, as I stagger to the side, barely holding onto my weapon. I wince as I breathe. A broken rib, maybe? My ankle feels twisted out of place.

The screams and shouts around me pierce the haze and I manage to look up.

Move.

Move.

Move!

GET UP, MOVE!

Slowly, I take a step forward, then another. My drunken walk turns into a frantic hobble. I ignore the pain shooting up my leg. I hear another scream, and I don't look back. I don't need to look to know the blood spilled on these sands. My feet feel heavy as they churn over the desert sands, but slowly I draw closer to our vehicle.

Time seems to slow down. Meters, I'm just a few meters away. One of my comrades makes it. A rocket flies past the last warrior standing, me, and impacts the ground before my comrade. The shrapnel tears at her, sending another scream to join the cacophony. She quickly turns. She looks at me as she does, blood sputtering from her lips as she says something, a prayer, a farewell. She falls. It doesn't reach my ears.

A cry of frustration escapes my lips but I barely notice it, as rockets from the enemy launchers crash into the soil where they had stood, throwing up a cloud of sand and dust. I break away from the skirmish, casting my eyes about for a place to run to with whoever was left alive, but there is none. The haze is gone, but the pain threatens to throw me back into it. I limp into the ruins.

The ruins had played stage to our bitter attempts to life.

I watch my reflection, as if it was you I'm facing, as if it were your eyes I'm losing myself in and not my own; hopeful, strong, crushed, sorry, so so sorry.

I don't know if I'll make it back to you this time.

Tears slide down my cheeks at my sudden honesty. I bear them willingly now, trusting this final weakness of mine to you: I do not want to die.

Images of you run through my mind.

The medic's patch blazing on your sleeve. Blood encrusted under your fingernails. Blade nor bullet has touched you, yet you were constantly covered in the blood of our men, reattaching souls that had left the body. Your superiors would always scold you for parading with the stains on your uniform, brown blotches that constantly needed washing. They said it was bad for morale. Yet they knew; you were real. You were the real face of our battles; not glory nor freedom nor shiny weapons. No. You revealed the pain and suffering, loss and despair without setting foot into hostile territory. You shook people from the dream, from the illusion that they all had that this was all a game, that we were invincible. You brought those who knew you back to the harsh reality we were in. We were at war. We were fighting for our right. For our lives.

I remember.

We wouldn't see each other for days on end. I would be off on reconnaissance duty, while you would be at the medical bay. Then, by stroke of luck, we would both be free. We'd meet, and hold each other in silence, our quarters free of the hustle and bustle around us. Your hands would shake, and I would keep them still in mine, yours flaking with the blood of our friends, and mine clean of the blood of our enemies. I'd lead you, and you would follow, our clothes falling to the floor along the way. Steam would rise from the shower as the water started to run, and I'd place your hands under it, gently washing the bad memories of the days past down, down the drain in a translucent ribbon of red. We would be clean of it, if only for a while.

My hands would be slick on your skin, and I would savor the smoothness of your hips, the curves of your waist, the hard tensing muscles. I'd take you in, your presence, your essence, your being so intoxicating. Drunk, we'd lose ourselves in each other, not in lust but in understanding that we were both broken, both in need of love in its carnal yet most natural form; love that we found only in each other.

You always made me feel alive.

I hold my gun to my chest as I struggle to rise to my feet, no longer able to hide the strain on my face. I have to fight. I have to survive. Then I realize-

I am afraid.

Finally, I admit it to you, to myself. I smile, but the tears continue, the walls of silence I had tried hard to keep crumbling and falling with this one confession. Every day I am scared; scared of the pain, of the possible failures, of the ideals that will not be realized, of the death that surrounds me, that of others and now my own. But I am most afraid of death because I am too attached to this life, to this existence; I am afraid to let go of you, to lose you by losing myself. You are everything.

I feel light. Perhaps it is the lightness of a secret suddenly revealed, the blood loss, or the resignation, but I feel light. Unbearably light. This may be the end of everything, or the beginning..? I grant myself the final luxury of hope as heavy footfalls echo against the stone walls, resounding, misleading. I hear the enemy coming from all directions.

This is it.

I stare longingly into the screen, and I utter the only thing I am sure of as I turn it off:

I love you.

I love you

I love-

3. Stiles

I stared, dumb, as you talked to your communicator screen to what you thought was an empty side.

You said you weren't going out today.

I'm frozen, stilled, silenced. You're talking, babbling. These are your possible last moments in this life, but my breath is stuck in my throat, my body stiff, my fingers cold. I can't move. I can't speak. It's as if everything disappears and there is only you, a bloodied, haggard you. Nothing makes sense.

I love-

The screen goes blank. Time stops, except for the tears welled up in my eyes. I breathe in sharply and they streak down my cheeks. Suddenly, I'm snatched from my reverie.

I scramble for my gear, hastily putting on my armor and grabbing whatever I see as I rush out the door of our quarters, the unkempt bed you left me sleeping in this morning watching me go.

I step outside. The sun is bright. It stings my eyes.

I made my way to the hospital in a haze. I do my duties automatically, not thinking of anything. Waiting. Just waiting for any news of you. After a couple of hours they came. The unit that was sent out to extract you and your team.

I look around, searching. Let me find you.

And I do. As I near the hustle and the bustle that comes with new casualties, I run. I stand aghast beside you; you're a mess. Your armor is almost in pieces, scorched and pierced past recognition, and there is blood; there is blood everywhere. I fall to my knees and press my cheek to your chest as I cradle your heavy body in my arms, frantically searching for a heartbeat. Just a night ago, I held you just like this, but your body was warm, your heartbeat was strong. Just a few hours; is just a few hours the difference between life and death? I hold you desperately, hoping, praying to find a tiny heartbeat pulse against my own.

All I find is a cold weight.

Then, a little spark of hope lights within me as I finally find it, so weak, so very weak against my ear. I look up in search of assistance. I looked down at you, holding on to life by just the finest of threads.

Can I save you?

I pull myself together. I breathe heavily as I start to remove your armor. My hands shake uncontrollably, and I fumble with my fingers.

Is this what we fight for? To be broken in every sense of the word, physically, mentally and emotionally, then to heal and scab and scar? To win, but to be so horribly disfigured in the end? Is this country truly worth that? This wretched country? We are like pigs to the slaughter, drawn here for different purposes, but all sacrificed in the same manner.

I do what I can. We all do what we can; to live, and to let live. I fix you up as best as possible, and stabilize you for transport. Somehow, you're going to make it. In the distance, I can see reinforcements disembarking from their trucks. I watch you. I smile. You look as if you are merely sleeping. I wipe the sand from your cheek.

My love, you tread into death, smeared in your own blood, yet you do so with the most peaceful look on your face.

We're going to live. But in the end, what have our reasons for living brought us? You cannot undo the horrors you have done, and I cannot erase the horrors I have seen. Is this truly living?

The soldiers pass us.

The war continues.

Even if we live, this war has destroyed us.

How much of this can you take? You may not know it, but we are all broken inside.

Fin.


End file.
